A Ride For The Dead

I’ve the dead with me
In the abattoir near the mountains
Where they dried their bones and flesh
For gold and silver of the Midianite;
Maybe someday, I’ll carry their memories
To the table where the state is ruined.
Perhaps today, I found them without footwear;
Running on the street to retreat to the tree
Where their names are tagged;
In the cold and winter, they felt all alone.
I’ve called the pen-riders to pick up my fight
When I have slept in the pot of soil.
Will they ride their pens on the potholed roads that linked us together?
When gold is smiling on their tables
Will they strike the wall with their pen-axes when they’re locked-up?
I’ve the dead with me everywhere I go
To break the story of the gods.